Good Girls Don't
by Lone Tube Sock
Summary: After Bob's death, Elle is unofficially adopted by the Bennets. Being a good girl is hard, especially when Claire is around. Elle/Claire, Eclaire
1. Chapter 1

Elle has eyes like impermeable fog—depthless and dangerous. It's why, Claire supposes, Noah sometimes looks upon the girl with a pinched face and a weary sigh hitched at the back of his throat. After Bob's death, he'd felt sorry for her, shoved notions of catastrophic repercussions aside and set her in the guest bedroom beside Claire's. Elle helps Sandra trim dinners, offers Lyle half-hearted courting advice even though she herself isn't familiar with proper dating etiquette and _always_ obeys their house rules (including those pesky extras Noah paves out just for her).

Claire regards Elle with steely mannerisms and unadorned disinterest. Whenever the electric blonde levels her gaze with Claire's, sparks break through the otherwise foggy abyss and Claire finds herself glowering to stave off the resulting whirlwind in her belly. Elle inevitably runs. She rockets into her bedroom to berate the strange feelings snaking up and down her body. Some of it feels good and some of it doesn't. Daddy used to chastise her for indulging in the things that made her feel good, like crackle-frying small animals and searing people, making anything that could _scream_. She reasons Daddy would say this feeling is bad too.

Elle wriggles out of her clothing, lies on top of her sheets and stares at the wall separating their rooms, willing it to crumble away. She wishes Claire would catch her touching herself; hear her mewling and rasping the younger blonde's name. Elle groans and blinks tears out of her eyes as her sticky fingers fall away from her panties. Elle recognizes that it's frustration stoking the tears. She's never wanted anything like she wants Claire.

When Claire comes home on Friday and announces that she has a date with Dean Patrick at 8pm Elle feels a surge of anger plummet into her guts and the tightly reined control she's worked so hard on mastering slackens, causing every electrical pulse on their block to short-circuit. Sandra lights candles and pets her hair when Noah softly scolds her. "She's still learning, Noah," sighs Sandra. "Give her a break, she's trying," and with that Noah agrees so he pats her on the back like a fragile thing and mumbles something about a back-up generator.

Elle watches Claire putter around the dimly lit house. The blackout hasn't deterred her plans. In fact, Claire seems even more determined to see through the date. When Dean knocks on the door with flowers and too much gel in his dark hair, jealousy wells up behind Elle's eyes, but this time she clasps her glowing hands behind her back and urges herself to swallow the emotion. She imagines deluging Dean's lanky 6' frame with every volt she can muster, watching his tan skin hiss and shrivel into dust and his rubber tennis shoes puddle into the coarse welcome mat. The imagery helps her cope, even when Dean runs his filthy eyes up and down Claire's legs. The cheerleader is wearing a skirt three inches shy of proper and an indiscernible mirth in her eyes as she glances at Elle over her mom's shoulder.

And when Sandra shuts the door and ushers Elle into the kitchen for a warm glass of milk and oatmeal cookies, she asks her, "Wasn't that boy handsome?"

Elle wants to yell _No!_ She bites the inside of her mouth until blood seeps onto her tongue and nods her head. Jealousy makes the cookies taste horrible. When Sandra, Noah, and Lyle retire to bed Elle sits up on the sofa with her legs tucked beneath her. She watches (thanks to the back-up generator) infomercials, _Wonder Years_ reruns and a program about free range poultry to pass the time. The front door eeks open at exactly 12:03 and Elle is relieved to hear Dean's wheezy car hacking all the way down the road instead of hushed voices, giggles and overly wet adolescent kisses.

Claire sets her keys down and walks into the den expectantly. That unsettling whirlwind knots up Claire's insides again as Elle searches for any indication—an unkempt lock of hair, a rumpled blouse, smeared lip gloss—that icky, undeserving Dean had touched the cheerleader. "What are you looking at?" snaps Claire, plopping onto the farthest end of the sofa. She's flustered, but hiding it well.

When Claire passes the inspection, Elle sighs out an answer, "Nothing." She chews on her lip contentedly and mulls over whether or not to ask Claire about her date. Where had they gone? Does she _like like_ Dean the way Elle _like likes_ Claire? Elle openly stares at the cheerleader, but Claire doesn't like it, whips her head around to make a snarky comment about perverts and discretion so she peers at Claire stealthily. Claire's seated very unladylike—legs open wide enough to afford Elle a flash of virgin white cotton panties. She watches Claire bring her palm to her inner thigh to lazily address a pang or an itch.

Elle doesn't realize she hasn't been breathing until the younger girl rustles off the sofa. "Good night," Elle says softly to which Claire gruntingly shrugs off.

Elle pours herself a glass of water out of a filtered pitcher before heading upstairs. Claire's bathroom is lit and slightly ajar. When Elle edges closer and inadvertently spies Claire's half-nude reflection in the bathroom mirror she nearly shatters the glass. Her heart flutters witlessly at the sight of Claire's naked chest, the toned flat expanse of her stomach, those legs. Claire continues to brush her hair and just when Elle starts to believe Claire is utterly oblivious to her presence, the younger girl casually locks eyes with her in the mirror and Elle's desire hits a new crescendo. Claire gazes into the mirror and Elle continues to gaze at Claire and they both pretend like neither one knows the other is watching. This happens until they hear the nosy click of a doorknob which prompts Claire to shut the door and Elle to hastily push inside her bedroom.

Elle plods downstairs to find Claire sitting at the breakfast bar nursing a half-eaten bowl of cereal. "Morning," she mumbles even though she knows Claire will just roll her pretty eyes. "Where's everyone?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but my dad had a Company meeting and my mom and Lyle are at church."

"Oh." She shakes some absurdly sugary cereal puffs into a bowl and reaches past Claire to snatch the milk carton. The cheerleader wraps a tiny hand around her wrist in a way that makes Elle cringe and want to zap her.

"You didn't say please," says Claire coolly. "Who else is going to teach you manners, Elle? Everyone thinks you're a freak. That's why Mom doesn't take you to church. She's afraid you'll embarrass her."

Elle pushes a carefully portioned current out of her gut and stings Claire hard enough to urge the cheerleader into laxing her clutch. Claire hisses and brings a throbbing finger to her lips. "Noah said you're not allowed to talk to me like that," she snivels, peeved and more than a little hurt. She steals the milk carton to spite Claire. "It's too bad you don't have any dungeons in this house, you know. My daddy would have locked me in the dungeon."

"That's because you have Jeffrey Dahmer written all over you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're psycho."

Elle lets out a growl before she can stop herself. "I might tell him you're being naughty." Elle would never tell on Claire. She just likes to rile her up the way Claire ramps up the lightning bolts in her blood.

Claire smiles calculatedly. "Tell him," she says, absently swishing her spoon around the milk. "I'll just tell him you like to watch me undress. I'm sure he'll forget all about my little outbursts then."

Elle feels cold all over. Claire's words wipe out every electrical zip, pop, white-blue slice and scorching whip normally winding through her veins and meanly replaces them with a dull stagnant frost.

Claire's fingers cock her head upright. She studies Elle earnestly, "You're not scared, are you?"

Scared of Noah? No. Scared of being sent back to the Company HQ, or to that lead room where you can scream and scream until your lungs leak red and no one hears you? She swallows the hard lump in her throat. Yes. She'd rather die with Noah's gun to her head and a bullet wrung between her ears. Elle mulishly shakes her head. Daddy always told her to put her best face forward: _"Even if the earth is shambling around you and you feel like it's the moment everything's going to go to shit, go out with dignity, Elle." _

Claire feels her insides squelch at the fear curling off the other girl. Every rip of apprehension almost makes her want to tug Elle close, press their bodies snug and whisper nothing short of sickeningly sweet fluff. _Almost. _She hardens her grip on Elle's chin and edges closer. "All you have to do," she rasps, leaning forward to brush soft lips to the delicate outer shell of Elle's ear, "is _be_ a _good _girl, Elle. You know how to be a good girl, don't you?" Claire pretends like she's unaffected by this touching, but if Elle was less distracted she'd notice the way Claire's eyes look hot and bothered, her frantic pulse, the ragged breaths.

Elle shivers. She likes the new way Claire is talking to her, touching her, cooing and purring at her like a cat. For the first time in her life she doesn't mind being a good girl. Claire dismisses her with a demeaning tap on the nose.

Elle poutingly reconsiders her enthusiasm as she separates the whites from the colors. Sandra taught her how to do laundry the proper way after her red sweater bled into her whites. When Elle comes back from the laundry room, Claire is stretching her limbs out. She smirks at the electric blonde. "I'm going for a run. I'll be back in an hour. Make sure you have a bath drawn for me."

It's been two weeks since Claire told Elle to be a good girl and Elle hasn't liked one bit of it. She's been up to her elbows in detergents, dry cleaning orders, english papers (after Claire discovered Elle's propensity for the subject) and every two-bit whim the younger girl sought to indulge in. When Claire beckons her to the make-up counter to serve as a stand-in for a lipstick shade that could go either way, Elle wants to tell Claire where she can shove it. She purses her lips tight instead, makes Claire fuss over the correct way to pucker her mouth. When Claire asks Elle to _please_ make her some lemonade because Noah's watching, Elle forgets to add sugar. When Claire tells her to make breakfast, she burns the toast and makes the eggs sunnyside up instead of scrambled. When Claire sends Elle and Mr. Muggles to the groomer's, Elle brings him back home with a green mohawk and not much hair anywhere else. Sandra's eyes are as wide as pie plates and Elle giggles into her fist as the woman reprimands her daughter. Claire isn't happy but Elle doesn't care. She even steals the last piece of vegetarian pizza knowing full-well that Claire only eats vegetarian pizza and had had her eye on the greasy triangle.

When Elle skips out of her bathroom that night, freshly showered and dressed in short shorts and a tank top to combat the heat, Claire's waiting for her around the corner. She has her arms tucked across her chest and a mean look on her face. "You're not following through with our agreement," she hisses, poking a perfectly manicured finger into Elle's chest (which Elle kind of likes).

"That's because I didn't know you were going to induct me into 21st century slavery," she says in a tone that sounds much like a _duh_.

"Oh, come on, Elle. What were you expecting?"

She opens her mouth to blurt something out, but her lips just flop shut, face flushing as she remembers exactly what she had expected. Something sultry, unequivocally more fulfilling than washing Claire's lingerie or taking the barking rat out for a walk. The way Claire had leaned up against her body and touched her soft lips to her ear…

"Elle!" snaps Claire. When the electric blonde responds with a dreamy smile Claire sneers disgustedly and stomps down the hall and into her bedroom where she shuts the door, reconsiders, and then scoots it open a tad.

Elle isn't stupid. She nearly tumbles over Mr. Muggles and a family heirloom in her dash towards Claire's bedroom. It's dark. The door shuts behind her, sealing the shadowy drone in. Elle bites her lip and keeps tiptoeing forward. She holds her hand out and torches it. The pretty blue halo shows her that Claire is just ahead of her, maybe two feet. Head bowed and eyes lidded. "Claire?" she whispers, edging closer. Maybe she shouldn't have come. Maybe this was another one of Claire's teasing ploys. Daddy was right about assumptions. Boy does Elle feel like an ass right now. She wonders if Claire feels like one too. "I'll just go," she says and turns to leave, extinguishing her makeshift light.

Claire's hand grips her arm with a surprising strength and even though the cheerleader doesn't say anything Elle knows she's asking her to stay. So she stays and eventually Claire comes closer, drags her fingertips down Elle's arms, tracing the live wires under her skin. Elle shuts her eyes and Claire's lips touch her face, just under her eye, barely-there butterfly kisses over her cheek and then on her lips. They're both breathing hard and Elle wants to slam Claire against the wall and _fuck_ her, but she doesn't. Claire's mouth presses on hers more firmly, needy, and when Elle draws the tip of her tongue along the swell of Claire's bottom lip the cheerleader lets out the sweetest moan. Elle swears the airy sound makes her come a little and she bites down. Claire whimpers and Elle can't help but wind her fingers in the younger girl's hair. She's cupping her face with the other hand, stroking down her cheek and neck. She gets this thrilling urge to squeeze down on Claire's delicate neck. Perhaps from sloppily quelling all that resentment she'd been subconsciously harboring from those times Claire was mean to her. After a while, Claire breathlessly shoves her away. Elle illuminates the room and stares at Claire. She looks beautiful. Flustered, eyes rounded and alight with want, lips swollen and wet, hair slightly rumpled and chest heaving laboriously. "Get out," she rasps and Elle wants to stick her chin out indignantly, say 'no.' But Claire repeats herself and Elle obeys.

Elle can't sleep. Her body is humming everywhere and her lips are numb from smiling so wide. The ache between her legs keeps tugging her hands up and down her body, but she bats the desire away, unwilling to settle for second-rate satisfaction when Claire's mere feet away. She knows the cheerleader wants her. But how bad? She wonders if Claire is awake, stubbornly struggling with the notion of getting off or simply getting off. Rubbing until it's raw. Elle bites her pillow and begs for the sandman to take her away.

Claire won't look her in the eyes. Lyle is at a friend's house and Sandra's busy with Mr. Muggles business. Elle sits on the kitchen island and Claire leans up against the opposite end. Noah is in charge of tonight's dinner. He's wearing an apron with Mr. Muggles' face on it and sashaying to and from the cabinets and refrigerator, stove and counter. "Will you start prepping the green beans, honey?" he asks Claire.

The cheerleader jumps up, startled, but easily regains her perky footing. "Sure," she says.

Elle picks a green bean out of the bowl and snaps it in half. Noah slaps her hand away and says, "Will you please set the table?"

Elle lays out four places because Lyle is staying over at Benny's. She makes sure the dining ware is perfectly spaced and symmetrical with one another. Noah thanks her when she comes back into the kitchen and even allows her to steal another green bean as a reward. She stares at Claire, but the cheerleader doesn't say anything, doesn't even acknowledge her with a glower or a piercing remark. Elle doesn't like this very much.

Sandra wrangles everyone into one room and announces it's time to put the Halloween decorations up. Lyle groans and Claire sighs noisily, but Elle is excited. Daddy never let her decorate for Halloween because "there's no such thing as fun productivity." Sandra drives them out to a pumpkin patch that evening. Claire chooses a squat, lopsided pumpkin because it's nearest, but Elle takes her time narrowing one down, stalking past row after row to select the biggest aesthetically pleasing pumpkin she can sort-of lift. They tack a skeleton to the front door, string up fake heads and a cartoony witch on a broom, smear cobwebs and plastic spiders across the windows, wind stolen police tape around the front porch and arrange light-up headstones up and down the front lawn.

They laze around the kitchen with round mugs of hot chocolate and gut their pumpkins. Claire stabs her squash passionlessly. When Elle asks Claire what she's carving, Claire says, "Your face," so Elle drops the subject and focuses on her own artistry. Sandra coaches Elle in the beginning, but she gets the hang of it. Noah is away on Company business but Elle carves an extra pumpkin with thick horn-rimmed glasses just for him. Sandra smiles and fixes her an extra mug of cocoa. Claire squints her eyes at Elle when Sandra's not looking, sneers, "Suck up."

Halloween is days away and Claire still won't look her in the eye. Elle wishes the cheerleader would boss her around and make her do her laundry because at least then Claire acknowledged her. Claire has been yapping on about a Halloween party for the past week. When Claire's cheerleading friends come over on Tuesday Elle overhears Jenna telling Claire, "Dean Patrick won't stop asking about you. He's _totally_ into you."

Elle painfully bites her lip, squares her shoulders, and pushes into the kitchen where the girls are doing their respective homework assignments. A brunette girl with bright eyes stares at her as she reaches into the fruit bin and pulls out an orange. The girl casually leans into Claire and whispers, "Who's that?"

Claire looks up. "That's just Elle," she says, seemingly annoyed. Elle feels Claire's eyes at her backside and even though she isn't particularly thirsty she can't help but bend over to reach the juice box at the back of the fridge.

"She's hot."

Claire grimaces and pushes harder against her pencil. The lead makes a groaning noise, but no one notices.

"God, Katie," laughs Jenna. "You're such a skank. Last week you were checking out my gross step dad and then the bag girl at Wild Oats. Let's not forget the chemistry substitute, Cruella Deville herself. I'm all for progression and open-mindedness, but you're worse than my boyfriend."

Katie scoffs, flicks brunette hair over her shoulder. "First of all, your step dad is like 20 years younger than your mom. He's dumber than my brother's hamster, too sweet, and looks like he walked out of an Abercrombie and Finch catalogue. I'd hold his hand at most."

"Whatever." Jenna holds up her hand and casts a curious glance towards Elle. "She would never go for you anyway."

"I, for one, would like a second opinion," huffs Katie, bumping a slender shoulder into Claire, "What do you think?"

"She's off limits."

"Why is she off limits?"

"_Because_, Katie, she just is, okay?" Claire growls, slamming her pencil against the table. The tip snaps off and rolls towards the beveled edge.

"Oh my God," laughs Katie. "Is there something you'd like to tell us?"

"No. Shut up. Just drop it, okay?" And they do, but only because Claire is the alpha cheerleader.

Elle senses Claire is in a grayish mood. She makes it a point to saunter over. "Hi," she greets, armed with a saucy smile and twinkling eyes.

"Go away," snarls Claire. "We're busy."

"I'm not," announces Katie. "I am officially done with my history paper. But if we're bothering you guys, we can go to the living room?"

Before Elle can protest or dully note Claire's richer-than-average hostility, Katie loops Elle's arm with hers and escorts her away from her friends. Claire doesn't look too happy and for a second Elle wants to console her, but then she remembers how much of a bitch Claire has been and doesn't look back again. Katie is flirty, overtly sexual and incapable of keeping her hands to herself. She touches Elle's hair, her hands, her leg. She leans in, makes farfetched innuendos and bats her eyelashes _too_ much. Despite these little nuances, Elle can't forget that Katie is a pretty girl. When Claire comes after them an agonizing half hour later to tell Katie she should leave because Claire isn't allowed to have friends over for non-homework related extracurricular activities until Friday, Katie fearlessly pecks Elle on the cheek. Elle knows Claire is lying because Claire is a good girl and never gets in trouble.

Dean shows up the next day for dinner. He has too much gel in his hair again and a stale boxed cake for dessert. He talks about sports and weather and cuts all his food into bite sized pieces. Claire won't stop staring at Elle. Dean is horrible at playing footsy. He brushes his feet against Elle's foot and winks at Claire. Elle zaps him and he spills water all over his lap. He yelps like Mr. Muggles. Halfway through dinner Noah asks Elle to grab some more napkins and as soon as she disappears into the kitchen Claire rips the chair out from under her and scrambles after Elle, mumbling something about ice cubes. "What do you think about Dean?" Claire asks as Elle rifles through cabinets.

"What is he even doing here?" Rifle. Rifle.

Claire slams an ice cube tray on the counter. "What were you doing with Katie?"

"What?"

"Don't act stupid, Elle."

"We talked."

"Bullshit. No one 'just talks' with Katie."

"Well, I did."

"That's not what she said."

"I suggest you get better sources because all we did was talk. And if inviting Dean over for dinner is your idea of payback then bravo, consider us even."

"That is not why Dean is over for dinner. I happen to… like him. A lot. Yeah, I really like him. In fact, I was thinking of kissing him tonight. He might be the one."

Elle rolls her eyes. "Good luck with that."

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you've got me all figured out."

The napkin hunt is forgotten. The ice cubes are shoved aside to melt. Claire and Elle are nose-to-nose now and breathing huskily. "Don't I?" whispers Elle.

Claire leans upward slightly, connecting their lips. Elle's hands fervently wrap around Claire's thighs, pushing her up against the kitchen island as the cheerleader knots her ankles behind Elle. The kisses are scorching and burning urgent trails down to their very cores. Their moans bleed together, stretching out to end where another one begins. Claire's clawing at her back and this time Elle thinks she might just fuck Claire on this counter in ear range of yucky Dean and the oblivious Bennets. She runs her palms up Claire's back, down her sides, slides them across her hips and curls them around Claire's ass, squeezing possessively. Claire groans and tightens her legs, grinding herself against Elle. "I think someone's coming," whispers Elle, pushing at Claire even as the cheerleader presses her mouth to her neck and grinds her hips more firmly. "Claire," she hisses, pulse thrumming so hard and fast she might explode.

They scatter just as the kitchen door flops open: Elle furiously jabbing into a previously abandoned cabinet with dilated eyes and a rutted ponytail and Claire fishing out a runny ice cube with her blouse twisted and her skirt riding up. Noah studies them inquisitively. He frowns so rigidly his horn-rimmed glasses slide down his nose and he has to poke them back into place. "Did you two want dessert?" he asks.

Claire smiles and shakes her head. "No thanks, Daddy."

"Elle?" His tone is unmasked suspicion.

Elle feels her skin prickle with anxiety. "I'm fine," she manages.

"Well, come on, girls. Poor Dean has been sitting out there dateless for 20 minutes. Your mother is talking his ear off about competitive dog showing and I don't think the poor boy is going to make it through another minute without reinforcements. You know how long-winded Sandra can be about her passions, Elle."

Elle nods silently because she thinks Noah is setting her up. She sits down at the table and watches everyone except Claire eat Dean's chocolate bundt cake and vanilla bean ice cream. And when the torturous ordeal is finished and everyone is full of ultra-processed refined sugars and nearly out of random things to discuss Claire makes something up about a literature assignment and rushes Dean out of the house so quickly he's still got a napkin tucked into his shirt.

Sandra and Claire clear the table, Lyle wipes it down, and Noah washes the dishes. He asks Elle to man the drying station so she cowers beside him with a clean rag. It's just the two of them and this suffocating air of awkward pretense in the kitchen now. Elle knows Noah is a smart man, can piece two and two together with patches over his eyes and his hands tied to his nuts. "You and Claire seem to be getting along better," he says and Elle nearly breaks the bread plate she's been polishing.

"Not really," she offers, hoping to lead him astray. "As far as Claire is concerned I'm her least favorite person. Ever." She hopes Noah is buying this. "Ever ever."

He hmms like a doctor and Elle knows to be worried. "She's been acting strange ever since you've been here," he says. "I don't know. Maybe it's just an overprotective father's overactive imagination," he laughs, rinsing suds off the last dish before handing it over.

"That's got to be it."

"What do you think about that Dean kid?"

Elle forces a smile on her face. "He's… nice."

Noah hmms like a doctor again and leaves the room. Elle's wobbly legs give out and she slides onto the floor, relieved that Noah didn't kill her for touching his Clairebear and grateful that Noah's suspicions were still mere breadcrumbs.

Everyone is on their way to the Bennet's lakeside cabin. Except for Claire who says she's sick and Elle who's punished for zapping a rude neighbor. Elle doesn't believe Claire is sick because when Noah tells Claire she's in charge of the older girl she smiles wider than a watermelon wedge. They haven't talked about the incident in Claire's bedroom, or the incident in the kitchen, or the incident in the living room during a previously taped episode of _Saturday Night Live_, or the incident in the janitor's closer (after Claire phoned Sandra and told her she'd forgotten her cheerleading outfit Elle was appointed delivery girl and when their eyes had locked in the empty, squeaky-floored hallway, neither girl could resist). They haven't gone past kisses and over-the-clothes feels mostly because whenever Elle unsnaps Claire's bra or runs her fingers up her skirt someone nearly walks in on them. And lately Elle has been seeing Noah's face, nostrils flared and eyes open and engorged, but that isn't the worst part. _Bam! Bam! Bam!_ all the way until the gun lets out a spent _click_.

Elle lies down on the couch. There's nothing on TV and Noah changed the access code to those naughty channels she sometimes likes to watch. The house is warm and she inadvertently nods off. Something soft tickles her face, antagonizing her out of slumber. Claire's bent over her, long hair brushing against her cheek. Elle sits up and Claire offers her a sneaky smile. She's dressed in a threadbare bikini that draws Elle's eyes everywhere. "I'm bored. Come in the hot tub with me?" she says.

"I thought you were sick?"

"I feel a lot better."

"I should probably stay here and lash my knuckles with a ruler or something. I mean, I don't think Noah would like it if I was having fun when I'm supposed to be reflecting and atoning." She fluffs the throw pillow under her head and shuts her eyes.

"Daddy said I was in charge. You heard him," says Claire, folding her arms across her chest. "That means you have to do what I tell you to do."

"I don't think he meant it like that, Claire. I know it's probably what you're accustomed to, being daddy's little girl and all, but you can't just skew shit to get what you want. I'm an adult, okay? I know these things."

"Barely," scoffs Claire, carelessly tossing blonde hair over her shoulder. Claire can be such a priss. "Don't get all self-righteous on me, or did you forget which one of us is the nut case?"

Elle wants to punch Claire in the face, bloody her pretty mouth, even knock some teeth loose. She kicks the coffee table and jets out the front door instead. She doesn't listen when Claire calls after her and pries the cheerleader's fingers off her arms when she tries to physically restrain her three-fourths down the driveway. She doesn't know where she's going, but she doesn't care. Claire is mean and Elle is sick of being a good girl.


	2. Chapter 2

The grocery store supervisor follows her down every aisle and eventually threatens to notify the authorities on account of her loitering. She buys a candy bar to shut him up, sticks her tongue out at the mean mustachioed man and cunningly rewires the electrical box to make herself feel better. The Food-Mart marquee blows up as Elle crosses the street into Ridgecrest Park. She waits for a vacant swing, but no one budges so she sits on the bench next to a frumpy soccer mom and a dog that looks like Mr. Muggles and watches the swingset despots have their fun. When Elle gets bored and asks one of the children if they'll spot her on the teeter-totter, a redheaded boy snubs his nose and declares, "You're too big, lady! You'll shoot us up into outer space!" Everyone laughs and Elle blushes and stomps off, damning the braceface under her breath. If anyone in that crowd was better informed or over 8 years old they'd understand the improbability of launching anyone into outer space via teeter-totter!

She sits in the sandbox with a bespectacled boy and smoothes out the top of a sand structure. Ronald smells like curdled milk, has an unbecoming cowlick and something chocolate-tinted smeared across his face but he doesn't mind sharing his blue pale and shovel. Elle lets him make all of the executive decisions, doesn't complain when he tells her to tear down the edifice she's been patting to perfection, or groan when he insists the castle should have two towers instead of four. She even buys him an ice cream cone when the push cart comes around. By the time Ronald's dad tows him away, they've constructed a mini-metropolis.

Elle decides she doesn't need Claire or the Bennets; she'll live in Ridgecrest Park forever. She has $40 in her back pocket, enough to buy months' worth of ice cream cones and the tube slide is warm enough to sleep in. When she runs out of money she figures she can zap one of the pigeons and spit roast it over a flame like she'd seen a bum do once...

_Maybe._

Pigeon roasting aside, Elle relishes the labor intensive because while "doer by nature" may not be applicable, Daddy has trained her to espouse the principle. Sure sometimes Daddy called her sloppy and tactless, but Daddy always said it was resilience that mattered. When it gets colder she can insulate the tube slide with unwanted religious pamphlets, car wash hand-outs, and newspapers—except for the funnies section because she likes to read those. How tricky can it be? If Bear Grylls can gut a fish with his bare teeth, Elle can certainly coast on her potential.

She doesn't need the Bennets, _especially not Claire._ Who's to say that Claire's kisses are the yummiest or that the cheerleader makes her insides all swimmy in a way that seems profound and impossible at the same time? And what if Claire makes her smile so stiffly her face might just splinter and crack in half? Who cares that Claire can turn her on with a careless glance? Unwittingly transform her into a selfless gobbet of goo? Not Elle, that's for sure. And when she hears a scream that sounds a lot like Claire's her legs start moving because while she may not need Claire, Claire may need her.

Elle's never run this fast. She _is_ lightning, zigzagging past trees and benches, up and over a modest hill in a blink and frying the square shaped bad man trying to hurt Claire. Zapping, jolting, firing, crackling, popping, zinging, striking, smiting until there's nothing but a raw crater under the smoky wisps and rancid smell where the bad man is curdled dead. Elle staggers sideways, lightheaded and pinging with a snippy sensation that feels plenty like rubbing your feet on carpet and stroking a doorknob. Claire blinks tears out of her eyes and clutches at Elle desperately. She's not weak, but Elle feels good in a way that is reserved for paltry romance novels and naïve bedtime story suppositions.

Claire's bed is comfortable. 1500 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets the color of pussycat noses and enough pillows to stock a Bed Bath & Beyond. Elle hooks her ankles and tucks her arms beneath her head. She pretends to see God or some kind of interesting epiphany on Claire's plain white ceiling because Claire's been staring at her with a new sort of ambiguity since they tumbled inside her bedroom and Elle's tummy is taut with wiggles. The cheerleader timidly peels off her blouse, lets it puddle on the floor. Elle acts like she doesn't notice, casually swipes bangs off her forehead to keep her hands from doing something stupid.

Claire's pants join her blouse and Elle swallows a whimper. She turns her head away, threads her fingers together so firmly bones grate. It's pathetic really. All this tension and self-control makes her want to empty her guts or pluck out her eyeballs. Elle is pathetic. Claire, by comparison, is only a little girl yet she can commandeer Elle onto her knees and Elle would only say, "Please," crawl across the room like a dog for closed-lipped kisses. She can hear Claire breathing roughly, imagines the expression on her face, the positioning of her body, the color of her panties.

"Why won't you look at me?" The words are wavering, solid enough to count, but soft in all the wrong places.

"I didn't know I could." Elle still doesn't know if she can look at Claire, but the cheerleader sounds unnerved so Elle carefully cants her eyes over; traces her body as respectfully as the situation will allow. The color is pink. Pale, lacey and beautiful.

Claire unclasps her own bra, lets it fall. Her cheeks are burning, but Elle's eyes are eating her up and it makes her _ache_. Claire knows pain intimately, can stand to recall every twinge with unruffled accuracy, but the excruciating tug between her thighs might just kill her. She moves towards Elle, looks her straight in the eye because she's not afraid to let her know she's scared shitless. And when they kiss, it's pure hunger.

Claire is on top, knees spread on either side of Elle's waist as the older girl runs kisses down her neck and shoulder, palms and fingers stroking and squeezing hips and thighs. Claire's body is hot and trembling under her hands. She kisses her chest, sucks a hard nipple between her lips and languidly licks her way to the other one. Claire's eyes flutter when they're not shut and her whimpers escape in short little hiccups.

Elle brushes her palms down Claire's stomach, tickles her hipbones and the tops of her thighs. "Elle," breathes Claire, forehead forcefully pressed against Elle's shoulder.

"Hmm?" Elle rolls them over, firmly pushes her thigh between Claire's. The cheerleader gazes up at her, bottom lip caught between her teeth. The younger girl's vulnerability makes Elle burn. She sucks at her neck, bites down over her frantic pulse, traces a fingertip up and down the front of Claire's panties where it's hot and, if she were to nudge the slight fabric aside, sticky.

Claire stutters, "E-Elle," and even though Elle is kind of annoyed she stops kissing Claire, drops her head against Claire's chest and tries not to roll her eyes or drive her hips downward.

"I'm a… I've never—" And even though Claire can't finish the sentence, Elle gets it.

"This was unexpected," she says quietly. Some misshapen bend of Elle's brain figures Noah will hurt her for sleeping with his daughter, but kill her for deflowering his Clairebear. Immerse Elle in a Company commissioned dunk tank and antagonize the crackles out of her to get that live-toaster-in-bathtub effect. She scrambles off Claire with a demoralized sort of haste and scoots down to the edge of the bed. Horniness coupled with confliction is a cruel sensation.

Claire is mad, digs a finger into Elle's back with a teary scowl. "You're a jerk. A stupid, clueless jerk!"

"What?" She pouts, watches as Claire shoves her arms through sleeves. Claire's babbling, piling on mean-spirited adjectives carelessly. Elle counts ten swears in one sentence.

"You tell me, Elle. What were you expecting?"

Elle is relieved Claire's powers don't involve shooting laser beams out of her eyes. "I don't know," she snorts, hands in the air. "I just thought that you had, you know, done _it _before."

"Oh God, really? Is that what you're freaking out about?" Claire thrusts her legs through tight legholes and trusses her hair into a disheveled ponytail. "I'm sorry that I'm not a slut, Elle! Most people would feel honored. Wait, what I meant to say was normal people would feel honored."

Elle decides the new flavor in her mouth is what hurt tastes like. Daddy never taught her _these_ things and Elle has a feeling Claire doesn't care, expects her to know what to do on a visceral level. Sometimes Elle misses the way it was before Daddy died, sure and structured, a hell of a lot less scary, but then she looks at Claire. A long, hard stare that almost feels like a strangling and as she rounds the corner towards her last gasping breath the cheerleader seems inexplicably worth all the awkward shuffling. She averts her eyes when the tears start dripping down Claire's cheeks, pushes the sickly feelings down so she can breathe. "I'm sorry," she says, but Claire doesn't hear her because she's halfway down the hallway.

Elle is miserable because Claire still hasn't come home. She eats ice cream out of the gallon and watches romantic movies for hours. Elle can't remember the last time she's had an idea as radical or uniquely her own as the one that lights up in her head at 4 AM, long after the ice cream has lost its longevity and the notion of sleep has been abandoned. She realizes she has to embrace romantic Hollywood's standards if she wants Claire to forgive her, and according to romantic Hollywood there is no act more deserving of forgiveness than the grandiose romantic gesture. Now all she has to do is think one up.


	3. Chapter 3

Elle reads through her list of would-be romantic gestures. She decides flower arrangements are too generic, jewelry is too presumptuous and skywriting is just plain tacky and subsequently runs a bold scribble through each option. She rules out poetry because she realizes she's only ever written one acrostic poem in 2nd grade:

Elle hates Mrs. Bailey's class

Likes to punch stupid people

Like Mrs. Bailey

Elle hates Mrs. Bailey's class

And it wasn't very good. She scratches out candlelight picnic because ever since Claire was nearly attacked Elle finds post-dusk park safety suspect and—_shit_--slams the pen and tablet on the tabletop because there aren't any ideas left! Electricity pops off her fingertips until she performs her breathing exercises just like Noah taught her to. The blue crackles slowly ebb away, back into the depths of _wherever_ they came from.

Claire's cold-shouldering has been icier than usual. The cheerleader snubs her delicate approaches and pokes extra mean fun at her during mandatory sit-down meals and although Elle has to zap herself under the table to keep from growling something mean right back, she feels like she deserves the brunt of Claire's hostility. Claire comes home early on Tuesday, radiating Hell and a peculiar dash of school spirit in her tousled cheerleading outfit. She stomps into the kitchen where Sandra is piling gooey chocolate chip cookies onto a cooling rack and Elle is licking chocolate smudges off her thumb. "God, I hate my chem. teacher," she seethes, picking up a smoldering treat.

"Careful, Claire," cautions Sandra, waving the spatula around like a gavel, "you'll burn yourself."

"I'm indestructible, Mom," she snaps, eyes fluttering testily. Claire takes a fat bite. It singes her tongue and burns a layer off the roof of her mouth, but in retrospect it doesn't hurt and the cookie still tastes amazing.

"What happened to your uniform, honey?" Sandra's forehead caves in as she eyeballs the mud specks and grass stains marring Claire's generally pristine uniform.

"I got distracted and fell off the pyramid, dislocated my shoulder. No biggie."

"Oh, honey, you have to be more careful."

"Right. Well, I'm going to go study. If I don't pass the next chem. test, I'll flunk out of Mr. Ortega's class altogether," Claire glowers, "Between now and the day of the test, I can officially kiss my social life goodbye. I was looking forward to my date on Friday, but it looks like I'll have to cancel."

"You have a date?" Elle splutters, reeling between cresting infuriation and hopeful disbelief.

"Yes," Claire answers casually although her gaze is a poorly cloaked challenge.

Sandra clears her throat, taps her shiny fingernails on an aluminum pastry lid. If her maternal indicator was anything to go by and it usually was, she'd bet something funny was going on between the two girls. Too bad she couldn't quite pin down the context of the going-on-betweens. "I'm going to run a tin of these cookies down to the community center," she announces, concluding that this situation would be best handled without her good-intentioned meddling. "Be nice."

Claire smiles, but not with her eyes, "Sure thing, Mom."

Elle waits until Sandra leaves before prying, "With who?" She knows Daddy would correct her choice of words, but doesn't care because she's always felt silly saying 'whom.' The cheerleader ignores her so she repeats her question. After all, Elle is asking to assert her right to these types of privileged information, not because she'll recognize the snot-nosed punk from 4th period Trig or some obscure yearbook snapshot.

Claire picks at her remaining chunk of cookie. "Jared McDurmett," she pops a piece into her mouth. "He's a point guard. He's a hottie."

Elle's face burns. She doesn't like the way Claire plays marionette master to her stupid, vulnerable insides. "Aren't you worried about your reputation?" It's utter bullshit, but all she can think to use as ammo.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Are you trying to systematically date your entire school's extracurricular athletic department? Why not just truss up a sign and meet everyone in the boys' locker room? It would save you a hell of a lot of time. I mean, you were gallivanting around town with that Dean guy not too long ago and now you're going out with basketball Jared," Elle rings her fingers until she feels like they might snap in thirds, "Doesn't that, I don't know, _scream_ skank?"

"Don't worry, Elle. I won't be sucking face with him during our date," Claire chides. "What happens afterwards is a whole different story." Her eyes gleam torturous mischief as she leans past Elle's shoulder and whispers, "I heard Jared has incredible hands."

Pain seizes Elle. The thought of anyone else doing anything to Claire makes her all pukey. "You're bluffing."

Claire shrugs her shoulders, tilts her head to the side and says, "Okay," before calmly striding away.

"You're bluffing!" yells Elle, increasingly nauseated. She drops her face into her palms and groans. Elle wishes Claire was less composed; that she wasn't the one unraveling at the seams. After a lengthy bout of gloom and self-pity, she goes back to formulating a romantic gesture for fear of turning into a rainy day cloud.

Elle lays in bed the rest of the night and thinks, foregoing dinner with a lame excuse about an upset stomach. She obsesses over Claire and Jared, nods off and has a horrible nightmare involving Claire as the title role in a wonky remake of _Debbie Does Dallas_. She wakes up in a cold sweat and pokes her head out of her bedroom window, filling her lungs with crisp, clean, non-smothering air. Despite the welcomed respite, she bites her lip and naughtily zaps the light post across the street. The glass splinters in one_ pop_ and crumbles all over the sidewalk.

Claire's chemistry book is on the kitchen counter, split down the middle. Elle traces her fingers over the sign-in block at the front of the textbook where Claire penned her name down in a pretty cursive script and has a flicker of genius…

And that's why Elle is standing in front of her chemistry lab with a package of Sandra's cookies. Looking around, she wonders if she'd have preferred her padded cell to this type of institutionalization. Mr. Ortega is a squat man with a sparse cul-de-sac of brown hair. He is a caricature with his dilapidated penny loafers, thick Coke-bottle glasses and felt-lined pocket protector. She rolls her eyes and knocks on the doorway. "Mr. Ortega?" she asks, disarming smile strategically fixed in place.

He looks up from his tuna melt sandwich, mayo pitifully staining his chin. "Yes?" he says, a look of perpetual fear shining in his eyes. "Was I expecting you?"

"I'm sorry, my name is Elle Bishop. I was wondering if I could talk to you about Claire Bennet?"

He squirms in his seat and yanks the napkin out from the front of his appalling Hawaiian shirt. "Of course."

She gifts him the cookies and cranks up the charm, even positively commenting on the Star Wars themed periodic table tacked up on the wall. He has a miniature geekgasm and proceeds to animatedly rant about the franchise for the next 15 minutes and Elle just nods her head and smiles until her mouth feels stiff even though she's nowhere near comprehending the things that are spewing out of his mouth. "So, anyway," he laughs, wrapping up the mini-Star Wars convention to which Elle mentally sighs out a hearty '_thank God_.' "What is it you wanted to discuss?"

"Claire's last test grade."

"I see…"

"She's been going through a rough time lately," she lowers her voice to a respectful whisper and improvises, "Between you and I, she recently lost her grandmother. They were extremely close," Elle makes her eyes glisten, "After her parents' horrible accident, the woman practically raised her."

"I see."

"I was wondering if you could cut her some slack."

"I'm sorry, but all grades are final. That's my policy. If I bent it for Claire, I'd have to bend it for every student and well, I'm sure you can see the complications in that," he shakes his head, "It just wouldn't be fair."

"Okay," she exasperates, "but her grandmother just died. Isn't there a loophole?"

"I understand that and while my heart goes out to her, my policy still stands."

"God, you're an asshole." She swipes Sandra's cookies off his desk. "I can't believe I was going to let you have these cookies."

"Excuse me?" he chokes, nervously polishing his eyeglasses with the hem of his shirt. "Who did—who did you say you were again?"

Elle huffily stalks towards the door, pride yowling with hurt. She doesn't understand this miniscule man's deal--manipulation has always been Elle's strong suit! She turns back around beneath the doorway and growls, "By the way, I lied, that Star Wars chart is completely lame." She nearly slams into Katie as she winds down the student-filled hallway, trailing steam. "Watch it," she hisses.

The cheerleader snaps her head up, prepared to shoot venom, but softens when she sees the blonde, "Elle?"

"That's me."

"It's Katie, Claire's friend. We met a couple weeks ago…"

"Oh," Elle squints, recalling the girl's touchy-feeliness. "Hi."

"Hey," she grins. "What are you doing here? Are you picking Claire up early or something?"

"No, um," Elle scratches her head. "I was just dropping off her textbook."

Katie laughs and brushes her palm against Elle's arm, "I didn't know you were such a sweetie."

Elle shrugs and glances over her shoulders, paranoid of Claire's whereabouts because she rationalizes that cheerleaders travel in tightly-woven packs. "Alright, well, it was great seeing you again," she rushes, emphasizing the exit words as she steps past Katie.

The girl takes a quick sidestep backwards, jamming her only viable escape route; Elle nearly grunts in aggravation. Katie twirls a strand of hair around her index finger and coyly says, "Listen, I'm throwing a huge party this weekend. I mean, I know you're probably way over high school scenes, but it'll be cool, I promise. There will be tons of booze and I hired the hottest DJ in the city. He's supposed to be Jesus' Second Coming on the turntable. I booked him last year. Anyway, I was wondering if you'd like to, maybe, come? You don't have to, I just thought that—"

"Okay," she blurts, half-annoyed at Katie's novel-length speech and half-amused. "I really have to go right now though so," she motions towards the exit, almost wishing her powers involved invoking a sense of urgency in others or the ability to conjure up exits at will.

"I should probably move."

"Please."

"Sorry." Katie sheepishly retreats. "I'll see you this weekend!"

Claire bursts into Elle's bedroom and scarcely misses the surge of blistering sparks the older blonde lobs at her head. "God," snorts Elle, "You can't just come stomping in here like that—it's hazardous."

Claire's hands are attached to her hips. "Why is it so difficult for people to understand that I'm indestructible?"

"Maybe it's the cheerleading get-up," Elle shrugs and smoothes out the surface of her bed before taking a seat. "Did you want something?"

Claire huffs and sighs and puffs and rearranges her arms and hands a million times as if she expects Elle to just know what's vexing her. Finally, the words start to spill, "Is it true that you're going to Katie's party this weekend?"

"I haven't really made a solid decision."

"You do know that Katie is totally brandishing a hard one for you, right?"

"Uh--"

"She is! And if you go to that party, the likelihood of you hooking up with her increases by, like," Claire tosses her hands in the air, "_at least_ 200 percent because anytime Katie invites one of her crushes to her parties, she scores."

"Well, I—"

"Do you like her?" Claire nods her head reassuringly, plasters a tight-lipped smile on her lips, beckoning almost too gently and too forcefully: a set up if Elle ever saw one. "You can tell me if you like her."

"I don't."

"You're lying," Claire paces back and forth, hands clasped behind her back, fingers brushing through her hair, "I knew it."

"Chill out, Nancy Drew!" Elle shuts her eyes. "I don't like Katie and there is no chance of us ever hooking up so you can just get off that trainwreck before it's too late."

"Why else would you be at my school?" Claire's tone is as accusatory as it's been since she nearly hurdled through the door.

"That's really not up for discussion right now."

"See, you're full of it."

"Okay," growls Elle. "Okay! You really want to know why I was at your school today? It was supposed to be a surprise. I was going to wait, but well, you're not giving me much of a choice."

"What?"

Elle shyly touches the door to her walk-in closet. Claire huddles up behind her. "Before I show you, I just want to explain that the situation isn't as bad as it looks. I haven't gone loopy and I promise I tried all other methods before resorting to this one."

"Whatever."

Elle pushes the door open to reveal Mr. Ortega passed out and duck-taped to a rolling desk chair with a bright, red ribbon ornately zigzagged across his body. Claire gasps, "Is that my chemistry teacher!?" She shoves past Elle and successfully feels his hairy wrist for a pulse. "What did you do to him? Why?"

"It's a funny story really, you're going to laugh," or so Elle hoped. "I was at your school today because I wanted to try to get him to change your grade, but he was such a douche bag. I gave him a sob story and you should have heard him, the guy is a total robot. I ran into Katie on my way out. I just figured you'd be less angry with me if I did something… _nice_ for you."

Claire swallows the prickly lump in her throat. She's caught between ralphing on the cream colored carpet and gathering Elle up in her arms. The gesture was sweet in a demented sort of way. If it had been any other person Claire would have screamed for Noah and filed a restraining order longer than a listless walk to Timbuktu.

Elle lowers her head and continues, "I waited until I saw him in the parking lot after school and zinged him a little. I figured a couple hours of torture would change his mind. Don't worry, there's enough tranquilizers in his system to keep Seabiscuit out cold for the next couple hours."

"We have to take him back," she says decidedly, on the verge of a Category 5 freak-out. "We'll just dump him somewhere and he'll wake up and blame it all on a bad lunch or something."

"But—"

"Elle, we have to take him back! If my dad finds out about this, he'll kill you or send you back and," she swallows, "I really don't want that to happen." Claire flicks her golden mane behind her shoulder and Elle conceals the mile-wide smile welling up on her face with a strangled sort of cough. "Did he see you before you zapped him?"

"I'm not sure."

"That's okay. Everything's fine," she breathes, more for herself than for Elle. "It's fine. Daddy's going away tomorrow so we'll have to wait until then. Just make sure he," Claire hitches a thumb at the snoring instructor, "doesn't wake up."

"He won't."

Claire's eyes rove everywhere, but at Elle. "Okay then, I guess I'll go finish up my homework."

"Goodnight."

Claire nods at her and edges out of the room, leaving Elle with a soaring, enduring type of high. She makes sure Mr. Ortega's binds are holding and shuts the closet door. Elle bounces onto her mattress, springing up and crunching down with a sound akin to a squeal.

Noah irons out fluffy Belgian waffles and casually browses through the morning paper. The counter-top television set is tuned to the local news station, but no one's watching it. Claire and Lyle fight over strawberry slices and Sandra tutts at them both, pointing out the abundance of blueberry and banana waffle toppers. "But these are the best," whines Lyle, forking a couple red wedges off Claire's plate when she's not looking.

A sleep-rumpled Elle arrives and gingerly takes her place beside Claire. They share a muted smile and Elle doesn't mind that there are no more strawberries because she likes blueberries better. Noah keeps an eye on the two girls because both the Company Agent and the father in him have been urging him to be vigilant, but no one notices his snooping curiosity. He doesn't know why his instincts are beckoning him to his tippy-toes, but they've never lead him astray before.

Just as Lyle polishes off his second waffle, he digs his elbow into Claire's side and points at the television, "Isn't that your chemistry teacher?"

Claire's pulse swims up to her ears and it's so insufferably loud she thinks everyone might be able to hear it. "Oh my God," she says, "Yeah, that is."

Sandra plays with her necklace and turns up the volume. "Missing? How awful," she sighs. "I hope he's okay."

"I'm sure he's fine, Mom," grumbles Claire, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Hey, at least the chemistry test you've been bitching about all week will probably be off," smirks Lyle.

Noah frowns and waggles a finger at him, "That's very distasteful, Lyle."

"Sorry, Dad."

"Claire," says Noah. "Are you alright? You look so pale."

"I-I'm fine," she insists, pushing her plate away. "I'm just shocked."

He walks over and slinks an arm around her shoulder, squeezing tightly and laying an encouraging kiss on the top of her head. "It'll be okay, honey. I'm sure they'll find him."

"Yeah, Claire, don't sweat it. I'm sure he wasn't, like, picked up by some lame serial killer and dismembered or anything." Elle ignores Noah's disapproving glare and apathetically tears into Claire's leftovers. "These are good," she says, flashing Noah a thumbs up. "You might want to consider opening up a waffle house once you retire."

Claire asks Elle for a ride to school and they cruise around town until Noah's scheduled departure time has passed before sneaking back into their neighborhood, wary of cops and anyone giving their car a second glance or an eyeballing that lasts way too long to be a casual, purely coincidental scan because Claire's conscious won't stop yammering and Elle's her verbal prickle-pad. Sandra is still at a workshop with Mr. Muggles like they'd desperately wished for and Claire sighs at this, thinks that a scot-free transaction_ is_ feasible, that Noah won't banish Elle because no one, not Sandra, not Lyle, not the local authorities and especially not Noah, will find out. And as they climb up the staircase, Claire's feet feel lighter and the heaviness on her shoulders subsides to a mere sack of mulch. It doesn't last long because once they push into Elle's room, Mr. Ortega's muffled screams become apparent.

"I thought you said you pumped him with enough tranquilizers to knock out a horse?" hisses Claire.

"I thought I did!" Elle bites her lip. "I was never any good at this dosing stuff."

"Elle!"

"Sorry."

"What are we going to do now?"

"Stand back where he can't see you. I'll zap him, and shoot another round of tranqs into him."

"If he didn't see you before, he'll see you now."

"So what? Most likely, he won't even remember a thing, just some slight fuzziness."

"Okay, just hurry up and do it already!"

Elle jerks the closet door open and swiftly guns blue cackles at the distressed teacher. He grunts into his gag as his body convulses and eventually sags against his restraints, unconscious and manageable, just like Elle likes them.

Mr. Ortega's loafers thud down each step. "Geez," grunts Elle, adjusting her grip beneath his arms, "He wasn't this heavy when I hauled him up there the first time."

"Seriously?" Claire pants, fingers slipping off his bulging midsection. "Were you high?"

The girls let him slump to the ground as they ease off the final step and collect their breaths. It's too easy, too good to be true. That's why Claire isn't nearly as surprised as she should be when she hears a telltale noise. "What was that?" she whispers, unable to shake the feeling of being irreparably screwed, but hoping for a nerve-induced delusion.

Elle hears it too, the unmistakable hum of an engine stalling on their driveway. A car door slamming shut, and then, _fuck_, Noah's cheery voice calling out, "I'll just be a second. I can't believe I forgot my briefcase!"


	4. Chapter 4

Elle doesn't like to think about things because worry doesn't feel good. It makes her hands clammy and her heart strain with _pump-pumps_. And while, admittedly, abstaining from thoughts has been an insensible philosophy and the raison d'etre behind 99% of her fuck-ups, Elle can't stop the abrupt outpour of thinks, mainly about how badly Noah is going to kill her dead, find some spooky necromancer freak to breathe life into her bones just so he'll have the satisfaction of killing her again. Maybe this is the single most scary event of her life, maybe it isn't. But Elle can't feel anything other than a resounding fear that does something funny to her insides, prompts her to _heave _Mr. Cortez across the hall and into the coat closet. Elle is so consumed in fleeing that she doesn't notice her wallet squeeze out of her back pocket or how just as Claire's foot slips into the closing door, Noah pads inside the house.

He bends down for the scuffed wallet. There, secured beneath the plastic visor and obscured by an old ticket stub, is Elle's driver's license. "Elle?" he calls, foot perched on the first step.

The top of her bedroom door is crooked open and visible from his vantage point. Another halting step forward and Noah flicks a glance towards his wristwatch. He grimaces. It's too late to be doing anything other than snatching his briefcase and barreling towards the airport. Vital clients are expecting him and, once again, the Company's reputation relies on his tried bureaucracy. They've already postponed the meeting well over an hour upon news that he had missed his initial flight and the boss would not take kindly to another muck up, albeit their rarity in Noah's carefully documented employment history. He slaps the wallet on the coffee table and tucks the briefcase beneath his arm.

Elle and Claire hold their breaths as a muffled engine churns away, further and further until the fear manifests into laughter. The closet is tight, Elle's crouched against the very back and Claire is kneeling against her, head bowed near Elle's chest. "Let's not do that again," whispers Claire and they smile at each other to distract their bodies from registering their proximity and the very real perils it poses. "I think it's clear…"

Elle nods expectantly, waiting for Claire to retreat so that she can spring upright, but the teenager just sits still, raises her head to look at Elle in the face. It's the closest they've been in eons and the cheerleader isn't ready to give it up. Claire wets her lips involuntarily, "I think we should get out of here before I do something I might end up regretting." Elle agrees.

It takes four propeller-like hoists to lodge Mr. Ortega into the backseat and they're off, scouting the area for a prime dumping site. The parking lot the chemistry teacher was abducted from is too conspicuous and it takes a 40 ounce cherry Slurpee split two ways and one mondo brain freeze before they happen upon a secluded patch of land near an ugly but in-service payphone. They make sure to plug the teacher's pockets with quarters and any other silver coins they find inside Claire's purse before slinking away as quickly as the speed limit will allow.

Claire can't shake off the thrill percolating straight through her bones. This, she reasons, is what the bad guys must feel like. She has to steer her eyes away from Elle on the way back. She wants to tangle her fingers with the older girl's but doesn't know how to broach the subject. Elle feels Claire looking at her and has a funny suspicion the cheerleader would do any torrid thing she could possibly ask for, but she resists, determined to stretch Claire's resolve until the younger girl snaps. "School?" she asks as pleasantly as she can muster, forcing Claire out of her hot daze.

Claire gazes out the window. "Don't bother."

"I guess you can look forward to your date now." It's a brisk afterthought, but laced with something undeniably off-putting.

Claire doesn't respond, sticks a hand out her open window and lets her fingers wiggle free. The wind sweeps her hair back and she closes her eyes, focuses on the feel of the air against her cheeks and lips and eyelids, the cool lashes lapping at her palm. Elle stares at the blurred pavement ahead of her, clenches her palms around the steering wheel so tight it makes the car jar out of place.

They spend the day avoiding one another, Elle counting down the minutes until dusk and the dwindling end of Friday's transition into Friday night. Elle spies Claire preening over her vanity mirror, uncapping mascara and dabbing on globs of lip gloss, holding outfits and half outfits to her body and cocking her head towards her reflection in assessment. Claire turns towards her, dress draped over shorts and tank top, and asks, "What do you think?"

Elle wants to tell Claire how beautiful she looks, but the words turn into carcasses somewhere along her thirsty throat. Instead, she nods, shrugs, walks away disinterestedly. She remembers the crumpled piece of paper Katie had given her days ago and which desk drawer she'd shoved it into. She unfolds the strip and yanks the house phone off its cradle, determined to show the blonde up.

Elle holes herself up in the bathroom, doesn't pop her head out when the doorbell rings and she hears Claire's heels clicking down the stairs, or when the heels come clicking back up for a presumably forgotten purse. Claire eyes the bathroom door and thinks about knocking to show Elle what she's worked so hard on pulling together for the sole purpose of making the older girl squirm. On second thought, Claire rules that calling attention to herself would be like admitting defeat and forces her legs to move on, back to Jared.

Katie's house is bigger than Elle imagined, but not as big as any of Daddy's old estates. The Toyota Corolla SR5 Noah gave her is older than Claire and it shows. She drives around the block because the streets nearest to Katie's house are congested with double parked guests. There's a sliver of open street wide enough to park in without dinging her rusty bumpers so she steals it before the less-shitty hatchback across from her has a chance to gun into the space. She walks past the Spanish style gates encircling Katie's house.

The brunt of Katie's party is inside the two story Spanish style house and along the back deck and tiled pool area. DJ Infierno is on a pedestal directly under the broad archway to-and-from the backyard. Elle shoulders her way to the open bar and pours herself a double shot of Rey Sol because it's nearest. A pack of sharply dressed seniors walks up to her but she sends the boys scurrying away with a demeaning glare. She can't be bothered humoring anyone, she's here for Claire.

Katie finds Elle first, taps her on the shoulder as Elle re-fills her cup. Elle picked out a racy dress and boots and from the wolfish glint in Katie's eyes, Elle knows she made the right selection. "Hey," greets the brunette. "You look amazing."

Elle smiles, throws Katie a bone by lingering over the parts the girl's outfit accentuates. They lock eyes. "Nice… _place_."

Katie bites her lip. "Thanks." She takes a sip of her bottled drink, "Did you just get here?"

"Like five minutes ago, why?"

"I've kind of been keeping an eye out for you," giggles Katie. "Does that make me a stalker?"

Elle scrunches her nose. "A little bit."

"You're in high demand; Claire's been looking for you since she got here."

"Where is Claire? I haven't seen her yet."

"Just hawk out the tallest guy in the room with the most pathetic lovesick smile on his face and you'll find her."

Elle nods stiffly. Oh how she'd love to spot Jared, give him a good surge of electricity, not too much though, just enough to permanently re-wire a couple million brain cells. Sure enough, the boy is hanging at Claire's side, trying to follow a conversation she's having with a mauve-haired girl.

Claire glances past her friend's shoulder and blinks at Elle. She's both surprised and relieved to see the older girl because for a while, Claire didn't think Elle would show up which in turn would have ruined her carefully deliberated plan. She presses her tiny palm against Jared's chest and pulls him in closer so that she can whisper something into his ear. A smirk splits his face from earlobe to earlobe and Elle can't stop seething.

Elle's plastic cup caves beneath her fingertips. If Claire insists on going blow for blow, Elle has no choice but to comply. Katie mentions body shots and Elle doesn't hesitate to shake a trail of salt along Katie's neck. Elle drags her tongue against Katie and slams down the shot before biting on the lime wedge between Katie's lips. Some part of Elle, the part that feels like a 24-year-old woman, can't believe she's resorting to playing high school mind games with 17-year-olds. It's like this the entire night, Claire postures and Elle postures right back. Claire strikes and Elle strikes harder. The electric blonde stopped counting shots three hours ago and Katie hasn't stopped trying to convince Elle into seeing the inside of her bedroom. "Please," she asks for the umpteenth time, insisting that her bedroom set, particularly her princess style four-poster, is the comfiest in all the land.

Elle's too busy spying on Claire and the way she and Jared are canoodling on the sofa, her head on his chest and his hand in her hair. They're evenly scored, and Claire hasn't had so much as one drink or laid her lips anywhere past Jared's cheek. There are no qualms in Elle's head that Claire is anything short of a five star golden girl. The cheerleader's eyes skim towards her direction every so often when Jared is talking or their conversation has hit a lull, especially when Claire caresses his chest or shoulders, leans up to giggle something or accepts an arm around her. Elle openly rolls her eyes and takes Katie's hand, yanking the girl somewhere, anywhere else. The alcohol is making her feet wobbly and her head light and foggy. If she doesn't get away from the bass-laden music and Claire's obnoxious interactions, she'll spew.

The younger girl takes the lead, tugging Elle up a staircase and down the first left turn. She dims the lights and locks the door behind Elle who trudges forward and collapses on the bed. "You don't waste any time, do you?" giggles Katie, reaching back to unzip her top. She hops onto Elle, scratches her nails down the blonde's ribcage. "How do I look?" But it's too late, Elle is asleep. Katie huffs, but quickly decides that Elle is too cute to be angry with. She tucks the older girl into bed and sidles alongside her. Plus, Katie reasons, all the anticipation just makes her hotter.

Claire is annoyed. She's sick of ego-fluffing Jared, swears she'll kill the next well-intentioned peer who so much as approaches her with noxious levels of alcohol on their breath. She's annoyed with Katie, the insensitive skank, for pursuing Elle even after Claire had risked marring her perfectly tailored projection of normalcy to claim the older girl as hers and hers alone. She's annoyed that the DJ has outplayed her favorite songs to the point where the mindlessness of pop music begins to unnerve her and she wants every Billboard 100 artist's head on a skewer. Annoyed that she can't fake being not annoyed for more than five minutes without Elle's eyes on her. But most of all, she's annoyed at Elle for making her feel this way. Annoyed at Elle for making her feel so secure about whatever this fucked up thing between them is that she actually believed Katie was just showing her to the bathroom. But it's been hours since she's seen the two girls and Claire is one alcoholic beverage short of kicking Katie's door open and dragging the brunette down by her hair.

Claire is a teetotaler by choice, but caved about an hour ago when the anticipation of Elle's re-emergence turned into a savage obsession. It started with one Smirnoff Ice and then another. Being a lightweight, the two drinks were enough for her to laughingly tell Jared off. He'd simpered away and although that had helped a little, Claire needed more comfort, sought her solace in a competitive game of beer pong.

Claire is losing. Again. It's her third round and the opposing team just sunk two consecutive ping pong balls in her cups. She swallows the beer down and rolls her eyes as the winning teammates crunch sweaty chests in victory. "How about another game?" asks Jenna, flushed and glassy-eyed.

"No, thanks. I'm way, way, _way_ past my alcohol limit and I definitely don't want to pull a Brock Taylor," says Claire. Every school has a Brock Taylor, the kid who can't quite hold his own liquor and ends up in the back of a squad car for streaking. The somebody who pukes in the pool and passes out in the pantry for the maid to discover in the morning. The juggernaut behind the embarrassing event everyone can recall even through the densest spells of alcoholic amnesia, yeah, that kid.

When Claire wanders to the living room, Katie is back downstairs, making rounds and saying goodbye to the retreating few. Claire can't describe the sensations bursting throughout her body in any other words than just that: bursting. She pulls Katie away from Michael Strongwood and Heather Dwight, and shuts them inside the study. "Hey, Claire," says Katie. "What's up? Is everything okay?"

"No, everything is not okay."

The brunette sighs noisily, rearranges a crystal paperweight, lion head bookends. "Is this about Elle?"

"You _know _this is about Elle."

"Too bad, Claire," she snarls, gripping the desk behind her. "You always get everything you want. You got captain of the squad even though we both know I busted my ass off twice as hard," she takes a menacing step towards Claire, "Ky Walton. Do you even remember him? You went on a date with him even though you knew I was, like, in love with the guy. Or genius Greta Paulson over stinky, legally retarded Newt Toby for lab partners because you were nicer to her during freshman year," she shakes her head, "This time I'm not going to stand down. I really like Elle and most importantly, without giving too much away," she bites her lip suggestively, "I think Elle likes me too."

"You didn't…"

"I'll let you decide that for yourself," she captures Claire's chin in her fist. "Now, since I'm not a vindictive little bitch, you're welcome to leave or you're welcome to stay. Just make sure you stay the hell away from me because," she kisses Claire on the cheek, "I promise you will get hurt."

A shock of sunlight sweeps over Elle's face. She groans and tugs the blanket over her eyes. "You!" growls an irate parental figure; Elle can hear God-given authority all over his gritty tone. "Get the hell out of my daughter's bed!"

Elle slides upward, palm squished against the side of her head that throbs the most. She doesn't remember screwing anyone last night, let alone anyone's daughter. Just then, Katie hurls her tiny, underwear-clad form at the very angry man screaming at her. She can't hear what he's saying, but she assumes it's something gristly; the vein bulging at his forehead is plenty indication. Elle feels something crawling around in her stomach, possibly hoofing its way up to her throat.

Elle makes it onto her feet, wobbles sideways and desperately swipes at the bedpost. She steadies herself, trying her best to push down whatever the fuck is creeping up and up. _Oh God_, she feels sick, searches around for a potted plant or insignificant vase, finding none and running, flying to the nearest restroom. She yanks the toilet lid open just in time. Outside the bathroom, she can hear Katie whining at her father and she'd roll her eyes if they weren't so watery. "Please don't," she sniffles. "Nothing happened!"

"I don't care, Katie. It's the principle. Now tell me who the hell that girl is so that I can call her parents--," pause, "She does go to your school?" Revealing pause. "Goddammit, Katie, why the hell do you do this to me? I'm getting my shotgun."

"No, Daddy!"

Elle groans, spits the sour taste out of her mouth and steals a sip of the mouthwash perched on the sink. She swishes it around as she stumbles out of the bathroom, gargles as she hurries down the stairs so, so clumsily. Katie is nipping at her heels. "Hurry, Elle," she urges. "My dad is crazy."

The front door is flung open and direct sunlight hits her face like a stealthy sidewinder. Elle grimaces. She spits the Scope out into the bushes and glares at the Jones' across the street who apparently rise at the buttcrack of early to trim their lawn and rotate their ornamental flamingos. They're staring at her or more accurately, at the scene that she has created: Katie, still in a bra and matching panties, hugging at her on the porch, tears freefalling down her face. Mumbling something about how her father shot so-and-so in the leg last summer, missed a major artery by a fucking fraction of a hair.

"Jesus," growls Elle, hungover and panicked. She manages to shove Katie off her and limp away. The brunette just hops up and down, yelling at her to run faster. This, Elle imagines, is what it must feel like when Claire and Katie's school quarterback is hurdling towards a touchdown, crowd doing the spectator thing and cheerleaders blowing smoke up his ass.

She glances back at the house and nearly wipes out on a water sprinkler as Katie's dad comes out with a shotgun. He levels the barrel in her direction but she ambles over a flower patch, absolutely destroying the promising plants, to duck out of the way. She runs until she's convinced he's not chasing her. Elle doesn't remember where she parked her car. The morning joggers must think she's a zombie extra as she shuffles down street after street, unsteady and aching from her guts out.

Sandra is cooking breakfast. The thick, runny oil and smell of popping bacon and sizzling fat makes her gag. She averts her eyes, but her stomach's already lurching and Sandra can see it all over her face. "Hangover?" she asks.

"More like Armageddon."

Elle crumples over the breakfast counter and doesn't make any indications of life until Sandra drops a plate in front of her. She gags but the older woman gives her a stern look until she picks something up and takes a nibble. She gives Sandra a thumbs up as she shoves the food down her throat, managing to chew only sporadically in-between stuffings.

Elle struggles to brush her teeth. Her belly's full of greasy breakfast foods and already, she feels a speckle of relief. She rinses off her toothbrush and jams it in its holder before splashing some water on her face, scrubbing away any make-up and grimy traces of this morning's marathon run.

Her room is dark. The curtains are drawn and perfectly efficient at what they do. Elle sighs contentedly. She's never had a place to call her own and this space with its banal Bennet-picked wallpaper and divine shag carpeting, sloppily hitched fixtures and slew of posters; random articles of clothing clumped together in patches and other subtle adornments say "This is Elle's." She kneels against her mattress, rubs her palms across the cool, unmade sheets, ready to dive in when the lump she assumed was just a concentration of blankets, moves. "Damn it," she hisses, torching her fist just-in-case.

She grips one end of bedding and yanks it downward, exposing a startled Claire. Elle blinks, promptly extinguishing her hand. "What are you doing in my bed?" She squints. "Is that my shirt?"

Claire pushes herself upright and leans against the headboard. "Did you just get home?" she asks, rubbing the disorientation out her eyes.

Elle shrugs. "Does it matter? Look, I'm really not in the mood for a lengthy interrogation, if that's alright with you." She tugs her knee-high boots off, de-bangles her arms and de-earrings her lobes. "I just want to get some sleep."

Claire just stares at her. "You spent the night at Katie's," she says quietly, calmly.

"That's right, and her dad almost shot me. With a gun. A real one. With bullets. Or, you know, shot gun shells, if you want to get technical. And then I spent an hour looking for my car," she purses her lips, adds a vinegary afterthought, "At least an hour."

"I was right."

"About?"

"About you and Katie."

"God, no," Elle snorts because she's too tired to laugh, "I told you I wasn't interested in her." She pads into her closet and sheds her dress for cotton short shorts patterned with anthropomorphic cupcakes and a plain white tank top. "Look," she pops her head out to pointedly address Claire, "I don't want you thinking you're entitled to certain types of information or anything, but I wanted to get away from the crowd last night. I ended up crashing in her room, that's all."

"Oh." Claire rubs her face, suppresses a smile beneath her hands. It feels like someone vacuum-sucked all the tension out of her body and dispersed it somewhere vast and free.

Elle ambles back towards Claire, one hand at her hip and the other waving around almost haphazardly. "Can I have my bed back now?"

Claire nods, but doesn't budge. "Your mattress is comfortable," she says and Elle chokes on a laugh because it's either the most random thing the cheerleader has ever said or the most obvious.

Elle swallows, drops one knee onto the mattress and then the other, places her palms flat in front of her and crawls up the bed. She bites her lip and bravely says, "You don't have to go. I mean, not if, you know, you don't want to." She absentmindedly positions a pillow beneath her head. "But, I mean, you don't have to stay either. You can totally leave, but I guess you know that."

"Do you want your shirt back too?" Claire lifts the hem slightly, exposing a cute belly button. Her eyes are twinkling, it's Elle's only indication that the cheerleader is joking.

"I'll let you keep it on account of the bitching draft this room is prone to."

Claire's smile is small but sincere as she de-tangles the blankets. Elle twists away from Claire, settles on her side with her eyes screwed shut. The teenager stares at Elle's shoulders, reaches out a hand to trace a line down Elle's back. She hears the older girl's breathe hitch, feels her muscles tighten and shudder beneath her fingerpad. "Elle?" she says.

"Yeah?" Her voice is shaky and small.

Claire looses her nerve and says, "Goodnight."


End file.
